


Sweetheart, I'm Not Bitter

by clytemnestras



Series: Star Girls In Sweatpants [7]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Polyamory, Stargirls Universe, Threesome - F/F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 06:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2802326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clytemnestras/pseuds/clytemnestras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no coffee left</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetheart, I'm Not Bitter

There's no coffee left, and if you'd told her that a year ago she would have stupid tears dripping along her stupid cheeks because then she'd have to get up and pull on clothes and actually  _go the fuck outside_  where all the things that tear her skin off live and wait.  
  
There's not coffee left, and Clara is curled up in the Armchair of Solitude with _Giovanni's Room_  slung over the arm with tear-stained pages, looking up from her tea with a small smile that says  _my hot leaf-water makes me better than you but I love you anyway_  and just not understanding that Dawn is shaking or maybe understanding it too well because all the knives have been hidden from the drawers.  
  
There's no coffee left, and Amy is still tangled up in sticky, spider web bedsheets, all cocooned in warmth and promises of bodies, but not before waking to the realisation that she's alone in the bed, the icy blast of fear that she's been left behind and the memories of nightmares that wake them all up in the disaster that is  _Three-A-freaking-M_ and  _school starts at eight_  and  _we're all gonna die_.  
  
There's no coffee left, and Buffy hasn't called in three days and nothing has ever been scarier than looking down at her empty cup and the hole Amy left in her sweatpants after a tickle-match turned sour and the scabs she pretends she doesn’t leave were uncurtained and no one spoke for three-and-a-half minutes.  
  
There's no coffee left, and there's also no dried blood like sunshine caked under her fingernails, just pale purple nail polish that Clara slathered on messily last week when two bottles of red wine went missing into the night and weren't found until headache groans rang through the apartment the following midday and bacon was fried by a blessed Scottish freak of nature.  
  
There's no coffee left, and if you'd told her that yesterday she wouldn't have cried, but that doesn’t mean today she won't - and it doesn't mean she will, either - as she pulls on the hoodie draped over the plastic kitchen stool and snatches up the keys so she won’t wake up the sleeping dragon by ringing the bell after rescuing the pot of gold from the evil merchant's stronghold.  
  
There's no coffee left, and even when two girls with broken hearts and perfect hair and cracks where the universe swims in their eyes open their arms to tuck her into them, Dawn is still learning how to be awake without it.


End file.
